The Greatest Dare of All
by Mere Anarchy
Summary: Tell the truth. . . [A collection of drabbles. Sakura paired with various males, mainly Team 7. There may be a few dealing with familial relationships.]
1. To Break the Vicious Cycle

Sakura had promised him stability, but she was the one who had changed the most. Gone was the high-pitched, innocent fangirl who frittered away her childhood on his behalf: in her place a hardened kunoichi capable of spilling blood. He watches from afar with nervous sharingan eyes as she traces patterns on their skin with kunai and opens her mouth as if to swallow the screams like rain.

She likes to play with her food, this one. She likes to let her hands drift to and _squeeze_ places a young girl has no place touching. She makes promises, too; these he heard with his own ears.

"Come to hell with me, baby." Husky voice, dripping with blood. Breathy smile. And then, with a swift slice of her katana, she breaks them.

_The promises, the men. . . She breaks them all._

"One day, darling, one day," she tells the mangled corpses, as if she has been intending to follow through with her invitation all along. And he laughs in the dark understanding that one of these days he's going to take her up on that offer.

_(One of these days, she won't be strong enough to stop him.)_


	2. Collector's Items

Sakura expelled a breath of air from her lungs, unheard over the soft hum of the air conditioning. The sun was barely beginning to peak over Konoha's forest, bathing her surroundings in a dim blue glow.

Out of her entire home, this room was her favorite: in it she had amassed her entire collection of childhood valuables. It was, she had to admit, an odd assortment.

A pair of moracas, one red and the other pink, dangled noiselessly next to the door by a piece of yarn. Resting upon a shelf was a jar of marbles (each a unique color), a teddy bear made from two types of fabric and a doll missing her arm. A wobbly-handed drawing of a monkey, with one ear comically larger than its counterpart, was hanging on the wall.

The soft tiny yawn of a child floated through the room. Kakashi looked up from rocking their six-month-old son's basinet, sharingan swirling next to dark blue, and the pink-haired woman smiled. She had been collecting mismatched things all her life.

It was only natural that she add him to her collection.


	3. On His Lips

He never misses a chance to tell her that he loves her. Sakura doesn't know how to respond except to kiss him, sweet and slow, hoping it gets her message across—

Lies always taste best on his lips. (Ninja must _see through_ deception, but that doesn't mean they have to _avoid_ it.)


	4. Lessons

She saw him in the forest for the first time in years, ambling.

Perhaps that was the wrong word. Gaara of the Desert does not _amble_. He strides, or he stalks, or he saunters. Amble? Absolutely not.

But whatever the case, there he was, all alone. Away from the throngs of advisors and flocks of adoring children and hordes of fan girls. No one to obstruct her view.

She liked it better this way. She liked it less when he _stopped_ ambling – or whatever he was doing – and raised his gaze from his feet to where she was hidden in the foliage. There were no words spoken; his voice was not required to deliver this message. A single glance informed her that he was aware of her presence, and also served to warn her away, probably on pain of death.

Gaara of the Desert had a lot to learn about Haruno Sakura.

His expression didn't change when she materialized in front of him; indeed, he looked as stoic as ever. Sakura's expression, however neutral, did little or nothing to equilibrate the aggressive stance her body had taken.

Lesson 1: There can only be one winner, and she has pink hair.


	5. What Goes Unseen

They slip into the position with ease, almost as if they are far more accustomed to being there than they let on. Deep, purple shadows curl around the two figures and in the moment of silence it suddenly occurs to Sakura that she started training with Konoha's leftover prodigy merely for a chance to see him smile.

The gasping, regretful sound of her breathing slows. Beneath the sharp-edged kunai mocking her throat, Sakura's pulse decelerates.

"Better," comments the careless voice of Hyuuga Neji from her blindspot. The kunoichi expels a hesitant breath before straitening the arch of her back and promptly collapsing onto her knees. For a moment there is no movement in the small clearing: when he leaves it is without another word, footsteps silent. The broad grin on his face goes unseen.

But Sakura doesn't need the Byakugan to know it's there.


	6. Heal

Her breathing is desperate and hitching precariously; the night contracts sharply around her. They hope she doesn't cry. It would make things. . . awkward. Crying is a sign of humanism, and requires a like response. It's not that they've forgotten how to be human. They merely dislike the subsequent, ineluctable complexities.

Nothing about her, not the things she says or the crooked line of her nose or the way she won't stop _crying_— nothing about her is simple. Blood looks different on her hands (perhaps because she doesn't _want_ it there).

For a moment, it appears as though she might regain a semblance of self-control. The onlookers inhale more easily. Unconsciously they wipe their brows of the sweat she is emitting; it has become a habit for them. What she saves, they slay.

These are the times that her legs buckle and kneel, because standing is no longer an option in the face of their divine misinterpretations. These are the times that she lifts her hands, finger by futile finger, and closes the gaping wounds of their dead enemies. These are the times that they ignore the tears falling from her eyes, the hitch in her breath, the uncontrollable rhythm of her hands.

They don't have the heart to stop her. (They don't have hearts at all.)


	7. Not The First Time

It is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that they have come to this place in secret.

His lips are smooth and silky against her own; just harsh enough to goad the rising terror in Sakura without actually making her scream. He is hard against her inner thigh, and the very thought sends trills of pleasure down her spine.

The gratifying sensations are interrupted, momentarily, by a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. He wants her now, yes. But who is to say he won't kill her after this night (or the next, or the next), when he no longer has need of her? This clan-killer, this mass murderer; who is to say that he would hesitate to kill a woman who is only connected to him by the thrill of skin on skin, breath mingling with breath?

Then again, she hasn't given him a _reason_ to kill her, and Itachi does nothing without a specific purpose. He is methodical in almost every sense of the word.

But this, the exception– this is not methodical at all. Sakura tries fruitlessly to bite back her rising urgent need, and all the thoughts that come wildly with it.

Why does he want _her_? Why are his fingers everywhere at once and his lips so desperate? As he presses into her body to deliver the final thrust, a thought strikes.

_It must be horrible to have a lover who is afraid to look in your eyes._

As it ends, as the tides ebb, Sakura's green orbs embrace the swirling sharingan and she feels no fear. Only twisted, terrible pain.

_Not the first time, not the last. . . _

-

**A/N:** I'm not too sure about that one. It was. . . odd. I may go back and add more; maybe something from Itachi's perspective.


	8. The Lucky Kunai

_Sasuke looked on coldly as her face lost its color, he observed with out a noise as her raspy breathing filled the forest and his ears. "Weak. . ." _

-

The Uchiha clan felt no shame in giving young children dangerous objects, primarily weapons, and leaving them alone to experiment. In fact, they encouraged it with enthusiasm (as much as they could muster), and even formed the habit of giving said children presents of dangerous nature. And so it came to be that, one snowy Christmas morning, Uchiha Sasuke received his first kunai.

He loved it. The fact that his brother had given it to him only increased his admiration: for days, all the little Uchiha boy could talk about was that shiny new kunai. He even took it to school and displayed it to the class, before the hysterical teacher had snatched it away and refused to return it until he promised never to bring dangerous weaponry to school again.

He had given his word, albeit sullenly, and slipped the kunai into his pocket. But the whole afternoon was spent fidgeting, his little face pale with longing for the moment the class would be dismissed and he could hold his precious toy again.

-

_His lucky kunai stayed with him throughout the years, from Kakashi to Orochimaru to the open road. It was, perhaps, the only object he ever allowed himself to get attached to. _

_This kunai, the one he knocked his old teammate unconscious with, was the same one he used, years later, to kill her. _


	9. When The Truth Can't Set You Free

He is not quite ancient, but very old. Once, when she was young and naive, she looked at him and thought, 'If I believed in God, that's what he would look like.' But God-like or not, it is clear that he knows more than he lets on.

Back when she was young, she wondered what kind of truth could be so horrible that he had to go to such great lengths to hide it. _Her_ kind of truth, she realizes now. And his mask is straightforward and honest, so much better than her own. She hides the fact that she is hiding something, but some day the whole world will know.

He is cool to the touch and she wonders why. She wants to grasp his shoulders and shake the truth out of him, watch it pour from his lips in rivers that pool around their feet; and she wants to stomp on the truth so maybe it will go away. She wants to ask, how do you live with it? How do you remember yourself?

(But she knows the answer is, and always was, "I don't.")


	10. Raindrops on Rooftops

There was so much on his heart, so many cruel memories. "I'll need time," he whispered.

"That's good," she said, "we have lots of it."

-

He asked her why she loved him; in return she asked how she could not.

That was all she could say, really. Why try to capture with words what could hardly be described in a smile, in a glance? The brush of his hand and the sigh of his breath. She was weary of words and the impossible worlds they created. There didn't need to be any words. It was just the two of them, beneath the soft and silent, entirely possible sky.

-

Mistaking what he had done for a written confession, for an open admission, for guilt, the villagers stare. So these meetings are confined to unconventional hours; he slips in slowly after the rain when her hair is damp and the sane people are snug in their beds. Even the sound of raindrops on her rooftop isn't sadder than his footsteps.

He hasn't touched her yet. She wonders how much more time he'll need.

It was a soft rain, but he carries a long bony umbrella in his hand, entirely for the purpose of assuming an air of sanity. The villagers watch him suspiciously, still. Even after all this _time_.

Sakura is sick of time. How can she convince him that this moment is all the time they'll ever need?

_With your lips_, his eyes tell her. _With your lips_.


	11. Separate Poisons

The view from Tsunade's office was breathtaking. Sakura's eyes scanned the green, green forest and rolled a cigarette in between her fingers restively.

The slug sannin was seated at a desk behind the lounging jounin, musing over a few scrolls. Sakura knew their contents backward and forward; they were basic healing texts that any entry-level medic-nin could be expected to recite.

There was not a single sound in the room. Outside, an eagle soared high over the Konoha canopy, screaming shrilly. Its figure was tiny and menacing against the pure blue Fire Country sky. Sakura could imagine the killing glint in its eyes; she had seen that look in her friends' eyes before.

The grotesque beauty of the eagle's eventual dive captured Sakura's attention; she did not hear the snap of a scroll being shut or the telltale squeak of Tsunade's special cabinet. The hinges were left un-oiled by Shizune, a sneaky endeavor that was not generally successful.

Of course Sakura did not miss the pop of the sake bottle; but neither did she move to stop her mentor. How could she? The cigarette rolled smoothly between her forefinger and thumb. The triumphant shriek of the eagle made her smile and pull out her lighter.

Behind her, Tsunade unrolled another basic scroll. "Never hurts to refresh," she muttered, something that might've been directed to Sakura in past years. Now their conversations consisted of "pass the scalpel," and "Shizune's coming" – a statement always followed by quick movement; the hiding of ashtrays and sake cups, the burning of incense or the swift opening of a window.

"It's so beautiful out today," Sakura would say to Shizune, pointing out the eagle or some other creature, her grandiose movements distraction enough for Tsunade to pop in a mint.

"Beautiful," Shizune would agree, giving her an odd look.

"Beautiful," Tsunade would add, a little fuzzily, and send Shizune out of the room on some pretext.

And Sakura would close the window again so they could choke on the fumes of their own separate poisons.

"Beautiful," she'd say, watching the eagle in its suicide dive, plummeting headfirst into the Konoha dirt. "Beautiful."


	12. Insomniac

Continuation of Drabble 11. Seperate Poisons.

-

"Sakura, how long has it been since you've slept?"

This sentence broke a silence of many hours, but the pink-haired woman merely shrugged. "Oh, you know what they say," she said, gray smoke rising from her lips like a desert cobra. "I can sleep when I die."

Tsunade said nothing; in her mind she imagined Sakura as a photo whose edges had gone gray and were furling in. She thought of her apprentice as ashes; the product of a beautiful fire.

"What's the average age limit for ANBU, anyway?" Sakura continued. "Thirty? Thirty before they just get tired, and slip up? I'm not so far away. Compounded with the strain of constant healing on my body–"

"Stop it, Sakura," Tsunade snapped.

The Hokage's apprentice cast a knowledgeable smile over her shoulder. "A sharp tone, coming from a woman who hasn't healed her own liver in over five years."

She got her reaction – a sudden, vicious narrowing of Tsunade's eyes; and then, minutes later, there was a small rustling as the Hokage rifled through in a drawer and finally pulled out a scroll. Sakura watched her, a hint of a smirk on her face that was somehow so much smugger than anything that Uchiha brat had ever been able to pull off.

"Another mission?"

It always came down to this. Eventually Tsunade would get annoyed with her – always hanging around the office, cynical green eyes watching, judging, a thin plume of smoke snaking from her lips – and Sakura would be sent out of the village. Short missions, for Tsunade was wise enough to know she would begin to miss her apprentice, but difficult ones. A-rank, S-rank, who knew. Sakura could handle them. The suicide missions. Voluntary participation highly preferable. They both knew that if Tsunade didn't send her on them, she would volunteer anyway.

Would there ever be a mission from which she wouldn't return? No; Tsunade had convinced herself that there would not. Honestly, the jutsu-lovely, pseudo-young woman didn't know what was worse. The darkly watchful green eyes and the bloody, beaten body of her apprentice upon her return were _annoying_. Sakura never had the decency to look strong when she was not, or at all emotional, when clearly, clearly she was not.

Sometimes she thought Sakura spent so much time in her office out of spite. Surely she knew she caused her master pain; that her master could see failure clearly written in the strong line of her jaw, and her forest-filled eyes. They were animal eyes, Tsunade felt, belonging to a great beast of the forest. They were shinobi eyes. But they were not the eyes of the young girl who had so determinedly demanded training from the fifth Hokage, which was, Tsunade knew, her biggest failure.

Growth, she had expected. Change was too hard.

Sakura spent so much time in her mentor's office for the same reason Tsunade let her. This process of dying – fading, really – was too hard to weather alone. And the cost of poison – to speed the process – was too high and steeped in blood.

Sakura sauntered forward to take the mission scroll from Tsunade's hands, and the older woman almost snatched it back on an impulse, but the tilt to Sakura's mouth was a degree too arrogant and the scroll exchanged hands. To Tsunade it was a moment in slow-motion, as if some higher power was book-marking it for her, so she could know exactly what to point to when everything came crashing down.

"Crack a window before you leave," Tsunade directed irritably, feeling naked and obvious; like a genin among jounin, every movement telling too much.

Sakura opened one all the way, dimpled mysteriously, and disappeared out of it.

Tsunade sighed, and put her sake away. It was bad luck to drink alone.

_Sakura, how long has it been since you've slept?_

Really, Tsunade had just wanted to know if anyone else kept count. She pulled a kunai out of her pristine Hokage's robe and carved another notch in the tidy line underneath her grandfather's desk.

What had Sakura said? Thirty, before they just "got tired"? Tsunade felt impossibly old and empty. She pulled out a list of names, Naruto's on the top: candidates. Replacements. This was an important decision for the future of the village.

She smoothed out the scroll and reached for her sake.


	13. Vision

"So?" a voice at the door inquired.

Sakura looked over her shoulder and smiled coolly. "What are you 'so-ing' at me for? I always get the job done." She returned her green eyes to the setting sun, incautiously disregarding Neji's advance. He twirled a loose strand of pink hair in his hands and exhaled: a question. He wanted to know when and how long she was planning to sleep with a stranger in order to accomplish the objectives of their mission.

The pink-haired girl placed a hand on his chest warningly and then retracted it with a haste that didn't show on her delicate features. Neji smoothed down the strand of hair and withdrew his own hand.

It was to be like this. Bitterness lodged in her throat and she longed for distance. Futilely, Sakura turned and left the balcony, ignoring the three hooded and cloaked figures standing at attention. In truth she could have reached out and brushed her hands against each of them, lingeringly, as she passed. But her hands dangled limply at her sides. The door closed with a tiny snap behind her.

"She's angry with me," Neji said. The recesses of the room cradled his voice and sent it back: the three could not ignore the echo of its implications.

"Why?" Sasuke inquired. It was the first time he had spoken in Konoha since his return and his voice was deeper with more than puberty. It slithered through the room.

Neji faced them, the veins in his temple bulging with the might of the Byukugan. "I see too much for her liking," he said. "Oh," he added – an afterthought, "and don't think she doesn't know who you are. Sakura sees what I see."

"You're sure she knows?"

This voice was Kakashi's, but lacked a certain characteristic laziness that put Neji on his guard.

"It was swirling, converging in her fingertips."

The next question was left unspoken, but it swept tangibly through the room. _How?_ Neji's eyes were transparent ice cubes. "There are more ways of seeing than one." And the three men standing at attention accepted this answer, although it was not what they wanted to hear. His lips couldn't deliver that answer anyway. They weren't soft enough or petal pink.

Knowing this, Neji turned to again face the setting sun. The balcony opened to a magnificent view of Konoha, but it soured before him tauntingly, as if to say _you will never reclaim what you once thought you had_. The door sighed shut when he left, and the figures clothed in black stood still.

If he was going after her, they couldn't see far enough to know.


	14. Living the Dream

Haruno Sakura walked slowly to meet her husband's murderer. She wasn't afraid – he was slapped under more high-level seals than she had ever seen in her lifetime, and probably drugged, too. She was, however, a masochist. Letting her legs leisurely determine the speed of her heartbeat, the kunoichi descended on the stone steps. Coldness unabashedly seeped under her skin and into her vital organs.

Only masochism could have prompted her to stay with, to worship, such a man as her late husband. Either masochism or true love, and Sakura only had enough heart left in her to believe in one of them.

She picked the first. Even true love wouldn't cause such irrationality. True love had limits.

But masochism meant that after every sneer, every demeaning comment, every condescending glance, she picked herself up and dove right back in. Rejection was her addiction. How many other fangirls still pined over the punk bastard traitor who ran off with the snake pedophile? Only Sakura remained.

And she goaded herself with this faux-adoration, proof of her weakness. As a child, she had had a simple crush on the dreamer who dreamt so darkly, but instead of withering away or evolving into love, that crush had dissembled into something entirely different.

Oh, yes. Sasuke was a masochist's dream machine and Sakura lived a masochist's dream.

She walked slowly to meet his murderer.

-

**A/N:** An idea to be explored in more detail in an upcoming one shot of mine. I do have to beat an idea to death before I'll leave it alone.


End file.
